A Stranger's Bench
by KorrohShipper
Summary: " "He was more than a friend to you, huh?" though it sounded like a question, there was no doubt that he saw through me and he knew my secret. " This is a future fic and I do not own PJO or HoO. Rated T, suggest that you read "A Son's Eulogy" first, then "Wake-up Call" before reading this installment. Read for the feels, I guess?


_**I do not own PJO nor do I own HoO. This is a future fic and I suggest that you read the previously updated one-shots in this respective order: "A Son's Eulogy" and "Wake-up Call" to thoroughly understand this one-shot. Rated T to be safe.**_

* * *

" _William_ ," her voice rang in my head. " ** _Wombat_** ," she called affectionately, using my nickname gingerly.

I shook my head at the memory. " _Don't do this,_ " it rang again, and I remembered me shouting at her, the whole fight.

"Shut up!" I opened my eyes to the snowy ground as I shivered.

I got up and kicked the snow that surrounded my shoes to clear my path, yet it was fruitless, my effort, because the snow kept falling down from the sky like rain or the tears that came from my mother's eyes, a vision that would not leave me alone or give my mind some sort of ease or any kind of relief. The memory kept haunting me, how I've treated her and how I've treated myself—an utter _ass_ who refused to open my blind eyes to the truth they had been trying to offer me since I swooped down to my lowest point.

Suddenly, out of the blue, I felt the air, the cold and frozen air, all around me for a second and felt that I was suspended in air until the cold, snow-covered concrete pathway had collided with my face. "Aah!" I hissed in pain when my hand came in contact with my cheek. When I drew my hand back, I was not surprised to see blood on my hand. "Oh, _great_! Just great!" I muttered and embraced myself in an effort to warm myself on this harsh Christmas eve. "I'm hungry and alone and freezing to death—thanks a lot, you _helpful_ gods!" I yelled to the sky, yet no thunder was hear, nor was there lightning to be seen.

"No appearances tonight, eh, deities?" I muttered as I went ahead, walking down the frozen pathway of the park, risking yet another fall. " _Fuck_ ," I rubbed my hands together furiously, trying to keep my palms warm. "It's freezing!" I gritted out through my chattering teeth. It seemed like my definition of Hell had changed—it ain't as hot as the Sahara in high noon because the Hell I'm experiencing right now is something as cold as the North Pole, the gods-forsaken place.

I stumbled across the park until my eyes narrowed on a dim light. It was an orange-yellow light, and although the sight was very dim, I knew exactly what it was and the part, the crucial part it's going to play in my survival for the night. As I walked towards the light, it seemed to get brighter in this snow-studded storm. I was getting close to the metal barrel—the fire that burned on the top seemed to shine as bright as the Christmas tree back at home. In fact, it should be shining right now, those alternating lights are illuminating the living room.

I finally reached the bench—the support was already sporting some icicles, and the actual bench didn't look so comfortable as the idea caught up to me. The idea that I was going to spend the night here. I sat down, grabbing the ends of my jacket and pulling it closer to me, trying to conserve some heat inside my body. I bent my head and looked down and scooted closer to the fire when I felt something soft. I looked at what I had hit and realized that it was a pillow, fairly cold, least to say, but it was better than laying my head down on ice-cold metal strips of the bench—it was, _surprisingly_ , comfortable.

I lifted my feet off of the ground and brought them to chest, embracing myself in this cold winter land. . .all by myself.

"Hey, mister!" there was a gruff voice that awoke my sleepy eyes. "That's my bench," I saw a man, holding a plastic bag standing in front of me. I searched the surroundings and only then did I register the shopping cart from Bag'n Shop, the numerous cardboard and a bit of matches. I got up, dusting off some snow from my jacket and apologized, half-asleep and half-awake. "No, _no_ ," he said, shaking his hands, putting it on my shoulders and nudged me back to the bench. "You look like you've had a rough night," I didn't answer because my looks were sufficient—it screamed to the world that I am not doing okay.

I tried to close my eyes, still shaking vigorously in the cold when I felt something warm cover me. "I placed that near the fire—it should be warm enough to get you through the night without contracting hypothermia." He muttered, sipping from a metal mug and turned to eye me, giving me a grin, sporting crooked and incomplete teeth. "Want some eggnog? The old lady near the Plaza gave me some food, too," he gestured towards the plastic bag. "You're welcome to help yourself to some of those biscuits." He continued to sip on his eggnog as the silence became brutally deafening.

Only the strong wind could be heard now. "Thank you, sir," I barely made it above a whisper.

"Sure, kid!" he grinned at me again, that happy-go-lucky fellow hobo. "So," he started casually, "you want to tell me why you're here on this bench and not with your family?" I stared at him as he sipped nonchalantly. "It's obvious kid," he combed his white hair with his gloved fingers, instantly making me regret leaving the house without taking the gloves. "You're young, son, and it's obvious from that look on your face—you've got people waiting for you at home," he took another metal mug and poured generously and gave it to my hands. Surprisingly, it was warm. "You want to tell what's your problem, kid?" his brown doe eyes seemed to give me this warm home-y feeling despite the weather.

"It's _complicated_ ," I breathed out, sipping a bit of eggnog, eyeing the whole park, the usually green park that is now covered in a thick white blanket of snow. "You wouldn't understand," I bent my head low and kept eyeing the ground in between my legs. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole, seeing that I stooped down to a level lower than that of the standards I've been raised in—I've become a coward dreading to face the consequences of my own mistakes, fearing the reaction of the people I love, deciding that it'll be better to leave them hanging than facing the inevitable.

Well, you know what they say—the word 'FEAR' has two different meanings.

 ** _Forget_**  
 ** _Everything_**  
 ** _And_**  
 ** _Run_**

 _or_

 ** _Face_**  
 ** _Everything_**  
 ** _And_**  
 ** _Rise_**

"Hey, kid," he gave me this sympathetic and understanding look as if he knew everything I've been through. "I'm 63 years old," he began with weary breath, looking across the park as if the horizon was visible, as if the orange-yellow sky was here, as if a sight so beautiful was right in front of him. "I've seen lots of kids your age and family men my age, women who can't have children, women who got pregnant at 16, adults younger or older, pass by my bench," it suddenly felt weird as the thought of a man living on a bench for months occurred to me. "I know their looks well enough to see if they're lost, suicidal, or just plain troubled, kiddo." He gave out a deep sigh and faced me, all serious but not grave. "We've got all night, son," he gave me an encouraging smile as he wrapped another blanket around me.

I felt curiosity, filled with awe and wonder on how a man, with no valuable possessions give me, a person obviously living a better life than his own life, could offer the one thing he needs to survive, even if it's just for the night. "Well, it's a long story," I mused and he gave out a hearty chuckle at my smile. "You might reach the ripe, old age of 70 because of the story," I gave him a blank serious face, as if I should burden him with my story. Why should I let him trouble himself with my problems? "You seriously up for that?" he gave me a firm nod and I let out a short breath of air.

"Well, you're not planning to leave anytime soon, right?" I gave him a hearty laugh and shook my head with a smile on my face.

"I doubt that I'd get any far in this kind of weather, mister." I faced the frozen lake in front of me. I cupped my chin and felt my stubble, remembering my need to shave. "So," I started out awkwardly, giving out a nervous chuckle, "where should I start?" he gave me an incredulous, as if it was something beyond modern practice. "What?" I asked him, studying his face.

"That is the most cliché thing I've ever heard from you, son," he took a swig out of the metal mug and gave me a short chuckle. "I've heard that so many times, kid, you have no idea— _hell_ , give me a guess!" I gave him a confused look and he held his hands in the air to his sides and gave me a proud look. "Come on, blondie!" he reminded me of the salty sea pirate, or the shark hunter from the hit movie _Jaws_ , except that he's marginally friendlier than the sea captain with the colorful vocabulary.

I frowned slightly at the nickname. "Well. . . _9_?" he laughed out loud, a deep laugh.

"Try 17!" he bragged. Soon, his laughter died and noticed my discomfort. "So, how about that story? It'll help you get rid of that heavy feeling in your chest," he suggested hopefully _and_ helpfully.

"Well, it all started with Klein's death," he raised a curious brow at me. "Ah, he's my best friend," I looked down, trying to reminisce the memories we have as young boys. "Since KG, actually," I felt something bob in my throat, as if it was needing to release a sob. "He is—" I stopped myself, stopped my silly hope and belief before it got the better of me, "Klein _was_ a part of the U.S. Marines and he died during his deployment," I covered up my near-breaking voice with this sharp inhale of air, "Klein was going to propose to his girlfriend when he got back, he was going to enroll in college again—he had his whole life ahead of him," I suddenly felt warm and realized that tears were running down my face.

" _And_?" he wasn't looking at me, but I knew that he was all-ears and that I had his undivided attention. "So, what happened after Klein died?" he asked, fiddling with his thumbs, raising the mug every now and then. I couldn't speak for a moment. "Or not, if you can't that's alright, sonny," he reassured me, giving me a supportive smile. "At least you've got something out, your burden is lighter—believe me, son." I shook my head, pressing my lips into a tight line.

"No, I. . .I _just_ needed a moment." I confessed, my voice lower than whisper, way lower than it should be. "So, where was I?" I asked the kind hobo who offered me his warm, slightly smelly, thick blanket.

"After Klein died during his deployment?" he suggested helpfully.

"Aah!" I recognized the story again, remembering the pain I felt during his wake. "You don't know who I am," I started out very slowly and gently, trying to process my words because I couldn't really spill the fact that there are gods and mythical monsters in this Earth. "But know that I am. . . _special_ , a whole lot more unique than other people—so, don't give me that ' _Everyone is different and unique in their own special way blah-blah and shit._ ' that you've probably given to every person who stumbled across your bench." I gave him a smirk, to which he raised his mug up to the air.

"Amen!" he shouted. I chuckled at his reaction. "Well, I have mentioned that line a little over too many times." I smiled at him.

"So, back to the topic," my mood took a turn way south, so south. "I've always considered myself his protector since childhood because he was a bit lacking on his physical side—so I worked out with him, I protected him against the bullies and I trained him for the Marines." I remembered those early morning where we'd jog around the track and the afternoon sessions at the shooting range. "I've been treating him like a brother and since I've been stronger, in a way, I've found myself assuming the role of being his protector. . .and then, Afghanistan happened." He made this ' _oh_ ' face, as if everything fell into place.

"And you thought that you're the one to blame?" he asked gingerly.

"I am!" with the connections and the abilities, I could've saved him. "If I had. . . _if_ I had been to him, convinced him of anything contradicting the Marines, no matter how righteous the his intention was, I could have been selfish for a minute and maybe, I would've attended his wedding—one wrong decision, mister." Soon, he peered over at me and saw what I was wearing. There was no mistake, I knew that he had figured it all out, everything in my story.

"And you got into a fight with your family because you've decided that you're going to join the Marines?" I reluctantly nodded at him. "And that's why you're in trouble with your family?" I nodded, slowly releasing the tears from my eyes. I let out a sob from my throat as I grasped the reality I'm in.

"When Mom found out, she was horrified," I tried to get the right words out of my mouth, but I found that I couldn't get anything out of my vocabulary. "And I reacted badly, which fanned the flame out of reasonable proportions—it was simply madness in there and I was being a lousy child, a lousy son to her and I couldn't get myself to see things from her perspective, from her view. . .but she couldn't understand the pain I felt when _I_ lost Klein and the duty I had to fulfill, my _need_ to avenge him and his death." I looked down on my uniform and ran my hand through the sewn fabric. "I need to make sure that his death was worth it, that it wasn't wasted—that the _bastard_ who killed him is going to meet his maker." I murmured silently listening to the storm as it hushed down, as it calmed and neared its end.

"He was more than a friend to you, huh?" though it sounded like a question, there was no doubt that he saw through me and he knew my secret.

Being raised by a single mother, whose husband met an unfortunate and untimely death, needed help with handling us. Of course, Mom was more than financially prepared for any situation, being one of New York's top architects of this day and age had wonderful pay, but to put our lives in the hands of a sixteen year-old student trying to save up for college, although a wonderful way of charity, would be unthinkable ( _Three herb-y scented legacies for monsters for the taking with a mortal side-dish—Gordon Ramsay would approve!_ ). The result? Luke, Charlotte and I spent much time with our aunts and uncles, most particularly, Uncle Jason and Aunt Piper ( _Though they were the last resort, seeing the fact that they were also raising their own children_.), Aunt Calypso and Uncle Leo ( _Mom has a very healthy relationship with Aunt Callie, but it was too awkward and tense. For Uncle Leo, on the other hand, well, her reluctance for him as our babysitter was too vocal to be of question._ ), so that left us with Uncle Will and Uncle Nico.

Aside from spending so much time with my Uncle Will Solace, who had heavily influenced my career choice as a future radiologist, I might have picked up another thing from him—no, it is not the love of playing the piano and the cello—it is, actually, the preference of men, my attraction to the same gender.

I stayed silent and waited for him to react badly, but there was nothing. "What?" I asked him, my voice a bit higher than usual. "Aren't you going to say something—aren't you going to cringe at me sipping your eggnog from your mug?" I asked him and he gave me a hug, something I did not anticipate in any way possible. "What. . .what are you doing, man?" I protested quietly as I sniffed and breathed unevenly as I eyed his gesture. I felt so much support from a man who had no idea who I was and I am an emotional mess.

"Who am I to judge you?" he looked at me and looked at himself. "Look at me, I'm homeless, I've got no job, I got my dinner from the lady in the Plaza—God, who knows if I'm some serial killer at large!" I gave him a skeptical look as he laughed away at my expression. "I'm kidding, boy!" I gave him a nervous laugh. "But tell me, why should I judge you?" I opened my mouth to say something, to say the obvious reason but soon, I found myself and my vocabulary in a drought of the proper words. "See, boy?" then he raised a curious brow at me. "You sure you're gay?" I laughed at his question.

"Well, kind-of?" I gave him a sheepish smile.

"And how?"

"I'm bisexual," I admitted as he held his hands in the air as a form of surrender. "So, technically, I am gay but, at the same time, I'm _not_ gay. . ?" I said it like a question and lifted the mug to sip, only to find that there was no more eggnog. "I think I've exhausted your eggnog!" I laughed, I turned the mug upside down and pointed to it with a grin. "And," I looked up at the sky and pointed at it as well, "well, the storm's over—my mother is probably worried out of her mind! I better get home, really," the, and only then, did I realize why she reacted badly to the whole military.

I'm not a demigod—I'm a legacy with a scent as powerful as my father's.

I'm exactly like my father because I am not invincible, because I am so much more human, unlike my father, and that a bullet to the heart, like the one that pierced through Klein's chest, could easily kill me in seconds. That I can't take as much ambrosia and nectar like them—that I am so vulnerable, so much more.

I was jarred back to reality when I heard the shuffling, the sound of metal clanging against the shopping cart as he prepared to leave. "I'm taking that look on your face as a sign that you need to go back to your family," somehow, I felt a tug in my heart, inside my chest when I nodded. "Son, that's my cue to leave," I handed him the blanket and the mug, which he gladly took. "Go on, back to your family, William," he said, my head perked up at it, I don't know why, but I still nodded at him as he poured himself another mug of eggnog, sitting at the bench by the weakened fire.

"Thank you, sir," I muttered as I began to walk away from him and back to people I need to apologize to.

"My pleasure, _Wombat_ ," I walked and walked, wondering what was wrong with what I felt. When I realized what was completely wrong, I froze on the ground as I remembered the fact that he called me ' _William_ '—I never told him my name, let alone my nickname.

I turned around and ran as fast as I can, as if my life depended on it, and saw that he was gone, the cart and everything. The fire, however, still kept burning. Which fire? The one that burned in the park, or the fire in my heart. "Hey!" I shouted at the top of my lungs and ran towards the direction he probably went to. I kept running, thinking that he probably couldn't get far, but he did—he suddenly disappeared like a bubble bursting in the air, like your words going off to the distance, like the life we had when Dad died.

My head suddenly shot up. "Dad?" I ran and ran until I lost my footing and tripped. "Aah!" I groaned in pain and reached out to grab any kind of support. Finally, my hand found something, but it cringed away from the sheer coldness. I lifted my head and saw the bench. I pulled myself together and sat on the bench as the fire slowly died. "Oh, gods," I sighed, turning my head to my sides rapidly. I'm stupid, it's kind of obvious now. "You're _so_ stupid, Jackson!" I shouted and sobbed, covered my teary eyes with my gloved hands. I laid down and squirmed—it was uncomfortable.

Why was it uncomfortable? I sat up straight and swept the snow away until I saw a card. My hands grabbed it immediately and dusted the snow off the card as fast as I can. The card was oddly familiar, the green and gold background, the golden linings, it felt familiar yet so distant. I gingerly caressed the sides and it had split wide, into two sides. It was a greeting card, one for the Holiday season. When I saw what was inside, my breath got caught up—it was our family picture, back when Dad was still here, back when we were still together, as a family.

But we are a family. That fact had never changed, and his loss, though affected us deeply, had never lessened our family-ness.

* * *

And I woke up, arms crossed, the branches of wood crackling by the fire at my side. I looked down and saw that I was clutching something—it was a Christmas card. I looked up and I knew what to do.

I had to get back home to my family.


End file.
